As my feet carry me back onto the hovercraft, I say a final goodbye to the place I called home. The district was never a place filled with bright colors and happy vibes, but the ashen, gray earth it is now, is not the place I remember. When I turn around, I'm met with a sweet yet familiar smile. It comforts me but also beaks my heart.
"Hey Rosie Posy," Rye tells me. He embraces me in a tight hug and if I close my eyes, I can trick myself into thinking that he is Peeta.
I love you
But as soon as the thought comes into my mind, it brings tears to my eyes and I have to break away from Rye. Still I look into his blue eyes that look so much like Peeta's and manage a ghost of a smile. "Morning, Rye," I tell him softly and wipe my eyes quickly.
"How are my little nieces or nephews?" He asks and places his hand on my stomach. Rye is one of my main supporters during my appointments. Prim is generally working in the hospital, my mother has yet to accept the fact that I'm having a baby, and it's to awkward for Gale.
"Good." I tell him smiling slightly. But my smile drops when I see Gale frowning at our position. Rye's hand on my stomach and mine next to his. I'm not an idiot, I've heard the rumors. People think that since I can't have Peeta, I've moved on to another Mellark. It bothers me and makes me sick, but maybe I deserve it. I've become so attached to the man they call Rye Mellark. His build that is so similar to Peeta's and his smile that is almost identical, makes it hard not to be close. So yes, maybe I've become attached but I haven't moved on to another Mellark. I would never abandon my husband.
I guess you're wondering how all these people are in district thirteen when practically the entire district of twelve was killed in the bombing. And the answer rests solely on Gale's shoulders. When the bombs began to fall from the sky, Gale ran into the burning streets of the seam and gathered as many people as possible. He led them to the safest place he knew of. . .the woods. With the help of a group of men, they tore the fence down and fled for cover in my safe haven.
The merchant crowd were not as lucky as the seam. Only a handful of the blonde haired people escaped the fire, Rye being one of them. He won't tell me his full story of how he escaped, but I thinks it's because he tries to protect me. Just like Peeta. His family was sitting around the T.V. when the power cut out. When they heard the bombs falling, they all started running towards the seam.
And that's where Mrs. Mellark stopped.
She refused to step foot into the seam, afraid that a seam brat might brush up against her. Mr. Mellark being the honorable man he was, stayed by his wife's side. But Rye and Wheat refused to stay behind, so they ran as fast as they could. But when an explosion went off right beside them, it blew them off their feet. And Rye never saw Wheat again. But he managed to run the rest of the way, and he was lucky enough to only acquire a few scratches.
Thirteen rescued them the following day, and here we all are. Except that Peeta isn't here. And that's the one person I do need with me.
I stare down at my wrist and twist the bracelet wrapped around it. It declares me as mentally unstable. And I find it funny, considering that I wear it because I hear voices. Maybe if it was someone else's voice I was hearing, I wouldn't laugh. But it's not. After all it's only one voice that I'm hearing.
"I'm ready," I tell the audience in the hovercraft. "I want to be the mockingjay."
Plutarch smiles proudly and Haymitch glances at me worriedly. "State your conditions," Haymitch tells me. "It's a small power play, but it shows that you won't roll over and be her puppet. Your main issue is that you can't let Coin think you're trying to take her power. Play up the grieving, pregnant widow act."
My eyes narrow. "I'm not a widow," I snap at him.
Rye raises his hand. "Sorry to interrupt your death glare showdown, but can we focus on the conditions?"
"Might want to make Buttercup one of them," Gale says, eyeing my pet. "They'll probably see him better as a stew than as a companion."
"What made you want to be the Mockingjay, anyway?" Rye asks.
My eyes drop and look at the shirts I have tucked away in my bag. "Peeta."
Gale frowns in confusion. "What?"
"In 12," I explain. "I went into our home and all the memories reminded me of what Peeta wanted. What we were going to fight for."
"So what's your final condition?" Haymitch asks, though I know the he already knows.
"We rescue him," I reply determined. "And all the other captured victors."
Rye whistles. "That's a tall order. Think she'll go for it?"
"She doesn't have a choice if she wants a Mockingjay."
Suddenly, Gale's communicuff begins to beep. It looks like no more than a large, metal watch, but a communicuff receives printed messages. They're only given out to important people, a status Gale achieved by saving so many people in 12. He looks at me and Haymitch. "They want us in Command."
"Perfect," I reply. "Let's go then."
We find the nearest elevator and then descend down to the correct floor. For the first time, as we traverse the winding hallways, I feel confident. Maybe it's just the sheer level of determination and anger that is fueling me, but I feel as though I'm in control. I want Peeta back. I need him. Despite how brilliant Peeta is, engineering his own escape from the Capitol prison is probably nearly impossible. If I want Peeta to keep his promise to me, then I'm going to have to be proactive.
I'm organizing how I'm going to present my arguments to Coin when we step through the door of Command. It's a large rectangular room, full of blinking lights and moving images. The walls are covered in bright, talking computer screens that show troop movements and electronic maps of each district. In the middle of the room is a large, shiny metal table that's covered with control panels I'm not supposed to touch.
President Alma Coin sits at the head of the table and crosses her hands when she sees me. She's a tall woman of about fifty or so with steel grey hair. I swear, it never moves from the perfect sheet that falls to her shoulders. Not a hair out of place. Not one split end. It's so uniform that it unnerves me. Sometimes, while everyone is talking at me, I simply stare at her hair and wonder if it's a wig.
Her grey eyes will study me. They're not grey like mine or like anyone from the seam; they're too light, almost as if the life has been sucked out of them. Not to say that she's lifeless. No. She's calculating. Always studying. She doesn't like me. She doesn't like that I've yet to give them an answer. But I've made up my mind, and it's time to tell her.
Just as I'm about to open my mouth, tv flashes on and everyone gathers around. Warily, I make my way through the throng of people until I'm right in front of the screen. I'm surprised to see a very familiar figure. Caesar Flickerman, the host of the Hunger Games, sits in his chair on the stage, wearing his eternal blue, twinkle light suit. Compared to what I've seen on the screens, this is almost entertaining.
Until the camera pulls back to show his guest. A strangled sound between a gasp and a sob escapes me, and one hand touches the screen while the other comes to rest on my stomach.
Caesar's guest is Peeta.
Similar gasps of shock echo around me, but I barely hear them. My entire focus is on the screen. Peeta. I study him intently, looking for any sign of the torture that the Capitol has surely inflicted on him . . . but I see nothing. He looks stronger than ever and his skin is glowing and flawless in that full-body-polish way. However, there's something in his eyes; a haunted, weary look that only I can probably see. Outwardly, he looks very composed. Serious. But he can't hide from me. He may not look like the battered, bloody man that haunts my mind, but he has suffered. My heart clinches.
Caesar gets the ball rolling. "So . . . Peeta . . . welcome back."
Peeta gives Caesar a small smile. "I bet you thought you'd done your last interview with me, Caesar."
"I confess, I did," Caesar admits. "The night before the Quarter Quell . . . well, who ever thought we'd see you again?"
You weren't supposed to. We were supposed to escape together. He's supposed to be with me.
"It wasn't part of my plan, that's for sure," Peeta says ambiguously with a frown.
Caesar leans toward him slightly. "I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was," he says. "To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen—"
"—Mellark—"
I can't help but smile slightly at the correction. "Forgive me," Caesar apologizes. "So that your wife and child could survive."
"I wasn't going to let them die," Peeta answers seriously, his eyes still shining with determination.
"Naturally," Caesar agrees before pausing, letting the silence settle, and then saying, "But it appears that other people had plans as well."
Yes, we did, Caesar. The rebels.
"Why don't you tell us about that last night in the arena?" Caesar suggests. "Help us sort a few things out."
Peeta nods, but doesn't jump right into things. He takes his time. He paints a picture. "That last night . . . to tell you about that last night . . . well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you, jungle . . . green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking your life away. Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people have died—some of them defending you. At the rate things are going, the last eight will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is that it won't be you."
The room is utterly silent as Peeta speaks, absorbed in his words. No one has ever described what it's like in the arena, and certainly not with so much description. The way Peeta speaks, his words prompt your brain to imagine every detail. Everyone is equally eager and anxious to hear more.
"Once you're in the arena, the rest of the world becomes very distant," Peeta continues. "All the people and things you loved or cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters in the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel, you're going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it's very costly."
"It costs your life," Caesar says, but Peeta shakes his head.
"Oh, no. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?" Peeta pauses, letting his words sink in. "It costs everything you are."
"So you hold on to your wish," Peeta says. "And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss."
A hot jungle full of flame and exploding earth. Panicked, yet determined words. Tears from both of us . . .
I'll find you, I promise. Now run!
"When that wire was cut, everything just went insane. I remember everything in flashes. Trying to find her. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. She was calling my name . . . and then the lightning hit the tree, and the force field around the arena blew out."
"Katniss blew it out Peeta." Caesar tells him leaning forward. "You have to admit, it looks a little skeptical. Almost as if she was part of the rebellion. Was she, Peeta? Was Katniss part of the conspiracy?"
My breath catches in my throat and I wonder if he'll lie. Or will he tell the truth even though it could cost his life. Surely he knew a question like this would come up.
Peeta looks dead on into the camera and captures my eyes in his. "Yes, we both were."
The audience in the Capitol starts to murmur and shocked breaths are sent though the people. They can't understand why the star-crossed lovers would want to be rebels.
"You both knew about the arena being brought down?" Caesar asks astonished. But Peeta shakes his head.
"No, we didn't know that there was a rescue plan. But we knew about the rebels head quarters. And we knew that somehow we were going to make it out."
"It looks as if Katniss knew about that plan. Would she have kept it a secret from you?" Caesar questions.
"No." Peeta replies aggravated. "Neither of us knew about it."
"Then why join the Rebels?"
"I don't think join is the right word here, Caesar. Katniss and I had no other choice but to take part in it. If you had a wife and she was pregnant, wouldn't you do anything to protect them. Even if it means doing something you shouldn't."
"Are you saying that you shouldn't have joined the rebels?" Caesar asks and Peeta nods his head.
Whispers begin to fill behind me but I ignore them and concentrate on Peeta. On his words.
"Then where do you stand in the war now? What are you thoughts, Peeta Mellark?"
Peeta looks directly at the camera before he begins to speak, his words laced with so much persuasion that even I'm inclined to believe him. "I want everyone watching—whether you're on the Capitol or the rebel side—to stop for just a moment and think about what this war could mean for human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer; our conditions are even worse. Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that—what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?"
"I don't really, I'm not sure I'm following . . ." Caesar stammers confused.
"We can't fight one another, Caesar," Peeta explains. "There won't be enough of us left to keep going. If everybody doesn't lay down their weapons—and I mean, as in very soon—it will be a brutal fight and there won't be anyone left to claim the victory."
"So you're calling for a cease-fire?"
"Yes," Peeta answers tiredly, and I see the haunted light return to his eyes. I know automatically that these aren't Peeta's words. He's been forced to say them by President Snow. "I'm calling for a cease-fire."
A.N. Here we are! I hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you think in the comments below and don't forget to hit that ⭐️ button! Lots of love. See ya next week.